So she married the type of person she’d loathed – the type of person she’d sworn she’d expose for their misuse of the ordinary man. And yet she craved him, his taste still on her lips, his touch still a tingle on her wanton body. It bothered her, this loss of control. This blatant usurpation of her morals and standards. 

It did not help at all that Mira was in her element. She bounced through walkways, audibly marvelling at cuts, colour combinations, designs and fabrics. An obvious contrast to Leila’s dark mood. 

Practically tugging at a butter-like cashmere scarf, one that Mira had oohed and aahed over for the last two minutes, Leila placed it aside while an eager shop assistant rounded off all their possible purchases in a heap and carried them over to be discreetly packaged. It was then that Mira slapped at her arm. 

“There’s a man hanging about the tie section,” she said as she almost pulled Leila’s arm off the socket when Leila attempted to look in the direction indicated. 

“No! Don’t look now!” she whispered. “He’s been staring at you. I think I saw him in the other two boutiques. I’ll alert the bodyguard.” 

Leila was about to tell her she was overreacting, but Mira was already getting the attention of their driver. 

“Bodyguard? He’s the driver, Mira. Here to help carry the load of unnecessary nonsense we seem to be accumulating.”

“He’s the bodyguard.” Mira stated this in an odd matter-of-fact tone. “Much good he’s doing, just standing there all muscular—and strong…and toned…” 

Leila was suddenly unsure if Mira was admiring or admonishing the man who waited for them at the doorway, his hands placed one over the other, legs slightly planted apart. Mira jerked her head at the possible threat in a code language only the two companions seemed capable of speaking. 

Although, when Leila finally set eyes on the man who had been claimed a threat, he looked anything but menacing. Much like one of the spoilt rich playboys that seemed to be a dime a dozen in Monte Carlo, he appeared harmless. 

In brown loafers, tan pants that tapered with the ends fashionably turned up, a light shirt and a stylish ascot tie at his neck, he lifted a hand when she made eye contact.

Both the bodyguard and the man stepped up at the same time. While the bodyguard remained silent, the man introduced himself. 

“I didn’t mean to alarm you, Princess.” 

So he knew who she was and had also overheard Mira’s concerns. 

“I thought it was you,” he said when Leila returned his smile a little unsurely. “I read about you… and of course I knew your father.” His voice had that mixture of charming European with a hint of Oxford.

“You did?” 

“Yes, for a short while at least. He was somewhat of a hero of mine. We worked briefly together for the Daily Mail, that is before his—demise.” He cleared his throat, his eyes apologetic.

“A hero?” Leila asked the man while Mira scowled at the bodyguard/driver and dismissed him with a wave of her child-like hand.

“Why yes. Your father was a bit of a renegade journalist in his heyday. Wrote a few pieces that could be some of the most interesting investigative journalism ever written.” 

Leila was a little stunned by this titbit of information. Her father had steered clear of the big stories—at least that was the impression she had been given. The image of her father fumbling through the morning papers criticizing the angle taken in a headline story came to mind. He’d always had something to say, but he’d never really written any of the front-page exclusives. Leila had always wondered why.

“Rude of me,” he extended a hand, “Charlie Marshann.” His smile was broad and genuine. “Will you have coffee with me, there’s a café just around the corner.” 

Leila had no reason to decline. Perhaps the glower on Mira’s face should have deterred her. But Leila had not taken notice of it.

They sat at a table under an umbrella bolted to the cobbled pavement. A slight breeze blew up from the sea fluttering the heavy material of the awning as they waited for their lattes and spoke of Grayson Brown. Her old father suddenly an enigma. 

“Gray would always point me in the right direction. I learnt a lot from him. Of course his death was such a tragedy.”

“Do you still work for the Daily Mail?” Leila really could not equate the man seated in front of her with that of a newspaper man. 

“No, not anymore I’m afraid. The state of journalism has truly evolved. Print is on a downward spiral. I’m actually freelancing now—writing content for the larger European publications, focusing on the social media side of things.” 

“I see.” It was a sad fact but he was right, print media was a dying news form.

“What about you, Leila?” He stirred his latte placed in front of him and stopped suddenly. “Can I call you Leila?” 

She smiled assent. 

“You were to be a journalist yourself, I remember Gray bragging about it.”

“Well, I seem to have other duties now.”

He took a sip of the scalding hot liquid without flinching.

“I dare say the more important duty after all. Oudh needs guidance right now.’

“You know of our little kingdom?” Leila was surprised.

“Yes. I do. Quite interested when I found out you were next in line to rule.”

“Oh! I—I haven’t quite wrapped my head around that one yet.” Leila had tried desperately not to think of that niggling fact. She was not ready to. She doubted if she would ever be ready to. She blew on her coffee before she sipped it hoping to be distracted.

“And you were married.” His cup paused in mid-air and pointed to her ring. She’d insisted on a simple band when the hefty and ostentatious ring Marco had presented her with on their wedding day looked ridiculous on her long fingers. “To Marco Vincenzi, no less.” 

Taken aback by his knowledge of her marriage, especially when it had been less than a week, she went quiet. 

“It was in the papers,” he offered.  Of course, they were married in London so it would have been published in the announcement section of the papers.

“Yes. Just days ago.” 

“Well then where’s the lucky fish?” he said as he scanned the street, now brimming with tourists. “I would expect him to be at his new bride’s side.”

“Taking care of business.” She regretted blurting it out just as she said the words. 

Mira had expressed concerns just as she’d briefly parted ways with her. “He’s a newspaper man. You’re a princess. Make sure you don’t say too much,” she had warned. 

At the time Leila had brushed off the warning. It made no sense. Mira was cynical to the world in a way that astounded Leila most of the time. 

“Well, Monte Carlo is where the top brass of the world converges, if not for pleasure, then certainly for business. Vincenzi must have a hot deal to miss out on spending time with his new bride.” Long legs folded at the knee, as he leaned back in his chair. 

Leila instinctively became guarded. 

“Is that why you’ve made this your base. To be close to the action.” She tried to sway the conversation to him.

He smiled easily. “Very good deduction. You know what?” His eyes narrowed. “I’m going to say this, just put it out there—I never would have imagined you’d marry someone like Marco Vincenzi. I mean he has quite a reputation, doesn’t he?” He shook his head from side to side. “From all that Gray told me about you, well, he would seem like the last man on earth!”

“A lot seems unlikely, doesn’t it, Mr Marshanns.” Adopting a formal tone, she hoped it would stop what seemed like an attack, subtle though he tried to make it sound. “It was highly unlikely that I would be crowned princess, but here I am. And just to be clear, Marco Vincenzi is an honourable man.” 

It came as a shock to her as well, her defence of the man she had earlier questioned. Honourable? She had to acknowledge that Marco had married her so that Oudh would have the ruby returned. Wouldn’t that be considered an honourable deed? She knew she was grasping at straws, but she would not let the pompous man across her vitiate Marco. No, not ever.

A long leg dangled as Marshanns sipped coffee and watched Leila with a guarded look. “Honourable? A stretch, don’t you think?”

She looked at him evenly. “A few months ago I would have admired your tenacity, Mr Marshanns. Using every trick in the book to get a story. But now I realise that there are journalists who expose the truth and those who create their own. I hope you don’t belong to the latter.” 

She stood up abruptly. “If you think you are going to get a story from me about Marco, think again.”

“Actually, Princess, if I were you I’d be more concerned about how attaching yourself to Mr Vincenzi’s shady reputation might affect you and your new country. After all, Mr Vincenzi himself has not made any attempt to rectify the press if there have been damning reports against him.” 

Leila hesitated, if only for a fraction of a second. But from the glint in Marshanns eyes, she knew he made his point and it struck her deeply. 

“Thank you for the coffee, Mr Marshanns.” She turned and walked away. Each footstep took concentrated effort, but she was careful to not let him see how deeply his words had struck a chord. 

Mira’s eyes smartened when Leila found her browsing in an elegant shop in a side street. 

“He’s oily that one, I can see—dipped, fried and soaked in clarified butter. I hope you minded what you said to him,” she warned as she lifted a souvenir from a display.